Mr Monk meets Dr Watson or The Cuckoo Clock Murder
by Stretch Snodgrass
Summary: Doctor Watson decides to pay a visit to California and investigate a murder with Monk and Sharona. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. 221B Baker Street

**Mr. Monk meets Doctor Watson**

What would happen if Doctor Watson, tired of covering Sherlock Holmes' eccentricities - decided to pay a visit to California and write his experience on a case with Mr. Monk and Sharona. Meant to be humorous. Watson's character is partly based on the "canon" - partly based upon the more blustery/ bumbling Watson played by Nigel Bruce in the movies/ radio series with Basil Rathbone.

During this story Watson is married (to Mary Watson - ne Morstan) though naturally it can't be placed in any chronology.

CHAPTER 1 - 221B BAKER STREET

It was a dreary evening. I was making my medical rounds. These days, I'm something of rarity. A doctor who has the common sense to make house calls. I always considered it the height of imbecility to make the sick ramble out of doors to see their physician - rather than peacefully convalescing at home.

And what a day it was to be ploughing through the London streets. It was unseasonably cold, and the city was gripping in one of its deadly, damp, murky yellowish-black fogs.

"And I thought we had finally put to rest those dreary coal furnaces and coal fires," I said to myself. I was making my way along Baker Street, picking my way tenderly against a crowd of aimless youngsters.

I was walking past by my old lodgings. To my surprise, I saw the silhouette of my old friend in the lighted window of 221B. Knowing him usually to be out at this time of day, I seized upon an inspiration. I would pay a visit to my old friend Sherlock Holmes, and rest up for the final leg of my journey.

I rang the bell, and went up the familiar set of stairs.

"Watson," said Holmes, graciously, as he greeted me at the door of my old chambers. "I see your practice is doing well."

"Too well, Holmes," I commented, as I sat in my accustomed chair - in the corner by the fire. "I'll drive myself ill running here and there through the city."

"Now, now, Watson," chided Holmes, lighting his pipe. "Surely you're not going to change your methods of practice merely because some infant patient received you in a most ungracious manner."

"Ungracious," I snorted. Holmes was certainly prone to understatement.

"The fact the young boy wouldn't take his medicine, threw a tantrum and effected battery on your person seems to have put you out of sorts," he said, smoking.

"Why Holmes?" I asked. "How could . . . ."

"Elementary, my dear Watson. When a good doctor has a toy car concealed in his waistcoat pocket, I know he has been visiting a child patient. When he sports a spot of sticky raspberry flavored medicine on his collar, I know that child would not take his medicine. It is evident from the faint marks on your left thumb that the child bites.

The child has all his baby teeth - and chooses to bite. That he chooses to bite, - that makes him no older than six. Thus, I should place his age at four or five.

When a competent doctor - with a record of military service - places his equipment in his black bag in such a disorderly manner - see, how one side bulges outward - one may deduce his last patient had been quite a disorderly one."

"A beastly five year old by the name of Rex Smith," I mumbled. A boy who found medicine horrid, and the doctor distasteful. Any normal child would ordinarily be grateful to be home from school. . . ."

I was interrupted.

"Wait, there is the bell," said Holmes. "If you'd be so kind as to stay, you should hear a very interesting case."

"Of course, Holmes," said I, "As soon as I tell Mary. . ."

"Yes," said Holmes, seriously. "But I must ask you to promise not to reveal the details of this case in you memoirs."

"Yes. I understand if this is a case where discretion may be advised."

"Oh, it's not that, Watson" said Holmes, laconically. "I cannot stand another of you writing a hammed drama of what should be a textbook case on the science of deduction."

"My dear Holmes!" I said, somewhat indignant.

"That is my final word," he said sternly.

I was in no mood to acquiesce to such an affront upon my efforts.

"Perhaps I'll write about another detective," I huffed. "Maybe that Adrian Monk chap in San Francisco."

"Mrs. Watson has been wanting to visit California," observed Holmes, nonchalant. "And you have always wanted to see where Petri Wine is manufactured. I think it would do you a great deal of good, old boy. From what I can gather from the papers, that Adrian Monk would make an interesting study!"

"Well . . . if I'm not wanted here" I mumbled, picking up my hat and medical bag.

Deeply offended, I solemnly marched out of the room, past a surprised Mrs. Hudson and Holmes newest client, a rather comical man in top hat, black coat, and striped trousers.


	2. Dr Watson visits California

CHAPTER 2 - DR. WATSON VISITS CALIFORNIA

As soon I could find a doctor to watch my practice, Mary and I went on our long postponed vacation.

I am no miser, but I did find the prices in California to be quite outrageous. Nonetheless, we enjoyed seeing the fertile central valleys of the most populous state of the union. What had, 300 years ago, been a land of scrub land and desert was now a paradise abundant in nature's bounty.

Eventually, we made our way to San Francisco, a misty city of hilltops and valleys. We rode one of the quaint cable cars which thread their way through the core of the city, we saw the crumbling prison Alcatraz - the place Americans once kept their most loathsome criminals. We saw the gracious Golden Gate Bridge - a triumph of the art deco movement in agriculture.

We stayed at the Hotel Anglais - an elegant Edwardian building in an upstanding middle class neighborhood. The hotel was quiet and had all the amenities Mary and I desired.

We were fortunate enough to meet some of our countrymen while dining at our hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Hillsworth were a gracious young couple also staying on at our gracious retreat. They had brought their children with them - twins - a boy and girl of about four years of age. Unlike that beastly Rex Smith, they were well mannered and behaved - thus, it was no surprise that my wife - a former governess - would choose to sit with them while I made enquiries into the whereabouts of Adrian Monk.

"Why, Mary," said I. "I can't leave you here while I have all the fun."

"Nonsense, James," said she. "The children and I will have a marvelous time sightseeing. I'll only get in the way of your investigation."

As it happened, I met with success that very day. A handwritten letter came from one Sharona Fleming - Mr. Monk's person assistant - inviting me to visit the great man at his quarters, that very afternoon. Informing my wife, I called a hansom, and within a half-hour found myself on Mr. Monk's very doorstep.


	3. Mr Monk meets Dr Watson

CHAPTER 3 - MR. MONK MEETS DR. WATSON

The door was opened by an attractive blond, petit and somewhat suggestively dressed. She had a pleasant attitude as she greeted me - carried herself oddly - like a porcupine ready to throw its quills on the first hint of provocation.

"Hi," said she, pleasantly. "I'm Sharona - we're pleased to meet you Dr. Watson. "_ADRIAN_" she added, with a severe change of tone and more than a trace of annoyance.

I was aware of a powerful vacuum, operating somewhere in the interior of Mr. Monk's chambers.

Sharona led me in. The place was immaculate. Monk was not the type to hide his tobacco in a Persian slipper. Umbrellas were lined up neatly upon the wall; the photographs and furniture were arranged ever so neatly at perfect angles. Not a speck of dirt was to be seen. Why, I've seen hospitals nowhere nearly so antiseptic as Monk's dwelling.

"Display's a women's touch," I said to Sharona.

"Woman's touch?" she said, laughing. "If I kept my townhouse this neat I'd be as crazy as him."

The great man was oblivious to our entry. He continued to vacuum his living room carpet, leaving a pattern of perfect horizontal lines his path.

"_ADRIAN_," said Sharona, over the dreadful row. "You just vacuumed this morning."

"Just let me finish," said Monk.

Sharona placed her hands on her hips and gave Monk a withering glare. Quite a formidable woman, was Sharona. However, Monk was oblivious to all but his housework. The impasse was broken by drastic action - Sharona tore the plug out of the socket.

The roar faded into a low, insolent whine; before becoming completely inaudible.

"I'm not finished," he said, rather petulantly.

"Tough," said Sharona. "I told you _the _Dr. Watson was visiting this afternoon."

The great man nodded his greeting - then made for the plug.

A short argument ensued - and a compromise. Monk had five minutes to complete vacuuming.

*****************************************

Once Monk had finished his cleaning - he greeted me most congenially. He shook my hand - and then immediately demanded Sharona provide him with a wipe. It was somewhat disconcerting, but as a doctor with an interest in detecting - I have read something of the man and his physiological particularities.

Sharona had made tea - terrible quality, no comparison to genuine English tea. Monk himself had some type of bottled water. Overall, they were cordial hosts, and they were only limited by the shortcomings in Yankee cuisine.

We briefly discussed Monk's late wife, the effervescent Trudy, whose lovely image beamed at us from several photos. The depressed detective seemed to lighten up when talking about his late wife. My friend Holmes' greatest triumph was undoubtedly the demise of that most formidable of villains, the late Professor Moriarty. I am sure Monk's greatest triumph would be the bittersweet day, when he should find the fiend who masterminded the murder of his beloved wife.

Sharona, sensing the changed mood, tried to encourage him to tell me of his greatest successes in the world of detecting. I was especially impressed by an adventure, which, should I ever write of it, I should call "Mr. Monk and the Sleeping Suspect," in which a comatose man tried to do in his siblings - so he might be the sole beneficiary under a bitterly contested will.

We were about to discuss Monk's triumph (in a case Sharona seemed slightly embarrassed to discuss) in pinpointing the murder of a judge to an obese invalid, when the phone rang.

Somewhat superciliously, Sharona announced the caller had reached Adrian Monk's office. She dropped the false tone, saying "Get to the point, Disher." After some monotonous answers, she took down an address.

"It's a job, Adrian," she told her employer. "Murder at 15 Apple Street."

"Why, can I come along?" I asked Mr. Monk.

"Well, maybe . . . I don't know. . . ," Monk hesitated.

'Sure," said Sharona, "Disher says its okay."


	4. The Cuckoo Clock Murder

CHAPTER 4 - THE CUCKOO CLOCK MURDER

Sharona drove us to the sight of the tragedy in her aged Volvo station wagon. Mr. Monk was incorrigible through much of the journey; he was constantly warning Sharona not to travel too fast. He did have a point; Sharona's driving was aggressive to the point of being reckless.

15 Apple Street was a 2 story house; just around the corner from a line of narrow old stores. The siding was somewhat weathered, and the shingles looked moldy, but the decay was hidden by a lush coat of ivy. The garden was brilliant; evidently carefully tended. Lilacs and roses abounded amongst the margins of the weather walls. A well manicured lawn and tall hedge bordered a short walk what was once a front porch.

The area was now enclosed by the a shop: "Addison's : Clocks, Watches and Repairs" was neatly labeled on an sign aside the front entrance. We were not the first to arrive. A balding man with a large mustache greeted us.

"Monk," said he; swearing. "The perp came in and bashed the head of the storekeeper The victim was Edgar Addison - a little old grandfather. Imagine - just to blow safe of this mom and pop operation and steal about a thousand bucks. Disher is questioning the widow - she just came home pushing a little cart full of groceries."

Sharona frowned and crossed her arms.

Monk sighed, looking into the entrance of this unlikely chamber of horrors. "Has her alibi checked out?"

"You don't think. . . ." I said astonished.

"Never mind," said Stottlemeyer. "The grocer and two other little old ladies saw her at the store. A cop helped her take her cart home. She's clear."

Monk nodded.

Sharona and Monk went into the house. The police captain faced me.

"So, Dr. Watson, what brings you to San Francisco?" asked Stottlemeyer. "Might we expect a visit from Sherlock Holmes himself?"

He seemed none too pleased at the prospect.

"No, no, just on a vacation with my wife; captain," said I. "You know my interest in crime, I just decided to meet the great Adrian Monk. Why, we've even heard of him in London."

Stottlemeyer seemed to wince at the mention of the "great" Adrian Monk, but was gracious enough to wish me well I'd like to write on his old friend.

We walked up the narrow walk, in the large and airy shop. It had a been pleasant place, with display cases. Atop the cases were mahogany mantle clocks, and a many of interesting alarm clocks - in a variety of shapes and sizes. Within the cases, one could see several fine old fashioned watches. A large gold pocket watch with an engraving of a speeding train glinted in the late afternoon sun. At a more opportune moment I would have surely purchased that precious relic.

Elsewhere, neatly dusted, grandfather clocks were lined up like so many soldiers at attention. Around the windows, around a fine stone fireplace; Dutch clocks, pendulum clocks, and a menagerie of cuckoo clocks adorned the walls.

Monk had just finished looking at them, al l in turn. He nodded his approval. I notice that every single clock was set to the correct time - each set to the exact same time.

Sadly, what really had our attention was the body of the old merchant. Behind the ancient cash register; and aside an obsolete safe, broken open; was the body of the man - skull crushed, and blood on the floor. The instrument of death - a poker, no doubt from the fire place - was rudely tossed beside him.

A policeman was standing there - the same who had walked the old lady home. A few forensics person were carrying out their job. A solemn man, dressed in black, was also there - as well as a rather pale faced youth.

"Meet your friendly local undertaker," said Stottlemeyer dryly, introducing the solemn and his son.

"Old friend of the family," sighed the undertaker. "So sad, so tragic. We came as soon as we heard."

Monk looked at them.

"Do we know the time of death, captain?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Yes, the poor man tried to call 911," said the other policeman. "I had just started walking the lady home when it came in."

"No recording, just hung up after a few seconds," added a forensics officer. "Probably just the perp."

"There's no way she could of, or would of for that matter, killed her husband with the poker," said Stottlemeyer sternly.

"It's unlikely," Monk agreed. "It looks as if they took the most convenient weapon they could find. They didn't intend to kill anybody, at least initially. But why would they come here? There's a bank on the main street. There's also a pawn shop, a grocery store, a delicatessen and a restaurant. This was no random robbery.

"Let's back up," said Stottlemeyer. "_They_?"

"A women and a man. Recently here. The desk is always kept clean, yet you can see some nail polish where she was obviously tapping it impatiently. Probably elegant, well made up.

She was probably upset with Mr. Addison, for some reason, before the attack.

Look at those footprints near the body. They're huge - have to be a size 13. Look at his stride as he left - he has to be at least 6'6".So it's a man. By the pattern, I'm guessing he's not rich. The shoes look as if actually glorified work boots.

"No kidding," said Stottlemeyer, looking at the evidence Monk had pointed out.

Everyone in the room was amazed. Myself, notwithstanding.

"I want to talk to Mrs. Addison," said Monk, abruptly.

We went upstairs, where a little old lady was being interviewed by a thin young man. The lady was dressed in the modest fashion of years gone by. Later on I told that this was Lieutenant Disher - a detective of such meager abilities Lestrade would seem to be a genius in the comparison.

She had a handkerchief to her red and bleary eyes; using it, with her quivering hands, to wipe away her tears.

With one look I gathered that she suffered from Parkinson's Disease, and it was absurd to even suspect the grandmother of such a horrid crime. But then again, could the man and woman Monk identified been merely the agents of this seemingly innocent elderly person? Could some sinister secret have dwelt in the home of these kindly elderly persons, one that led to the brutal murder of Mr. Edgar Addison?

Monk seemed altogether unconcerned. In fact, he questioned Mrs. Addison on a matter so trivial - it was insolent to bring up at such a time.

"Have you sold a cuckoo clock recently - in the past days?"

"_ADRIAN_!" Sharona exclaimed; glaring at Monk with all her power.

"Huh," said the ever articulate Disher, while his captain chewed on a toothpick.

"Why no," said the lady, surprised. "Why do you ask that?"

"I think there's a large clock missing - one that stood for many years on the wall just above the cash register. You can see the sun has faded the paneling all around it - but not behind it.

"Not my husband's favorite clock," said she. "It was one of kind."

"He wouldn't sell it?" asked Monk.

"Of course not. It was his pride and joy. He liked to show to all the visitors in the shop."

"Where did it come from?" asked Stottlemeyer.

"As a young man, he purchased it from a small furniture store. The shop owner was all too glad to get rid of it - he considered it a monstrosity that he purchased from an estate sale - along with much more valuable furniture."

"Do you have a picture," asked Monk.

"Yes," she said, "they're in the photograph albums. Maybe that young lady can get it."

Mrs. Addison told Sharona where to find. Sharona quickly brought back a score of leather bound books. While Disher, Stottlemeyer and Monk looked fro the elusive clock - Sharona and I did all we could to comfort the poor old lady.

'I should prescribe a sedative," I told Sharona, "Unfortunately, I'm not licensed to practice in this jurisdiction - however, a simple over the counter will do until she's able to consult her regular physician."

Meanwhile, the detectives had discovered several pictures of the timepiece. Mrs. Addison identified as the missing cuckoo clock.

And what a strange clock it was, unlike any I had ever seen!

It was in the shape of a large and ornate 13 -storey building. The pendulum movement was observed through some decorative glass doors at the bottom of the clock. Amazingly, the clock had no less than 14 cuckoos - one on each floor, and three on the second top level. On the top floor was a little man in top hat and striped pants. Upon the hour, he came upon a set track - removing his hat, and waving it toward his left.

Strange, but oddly familiar. I was sure I saw a clock like that somewhere before (so did Stottlemeyer, Monk and Sharona), but where, that was a great mystery.

Monk winced. Sharona assured us it was due to the asymmetry of its all.

Nonetheless he had the presence of mind to bluntly tell the poor woman - "Find the clock, and you'll discover who murdered your husband."


	5. The Cuckoo Doctor

CHAPTER 4 - THE CUCKOO DOCTOR

The following morning, my wife suggested we invite Sharona and Monk over for dinner at the Hotel _Anglais_. On my way out, I frequented the gift shop, and for only $3.00 each, purchased a collection of souvenir post cards.

The ever dull Lieutenant Disher had contacted me, via the telephone, and informed me that the captain, Miss Fleming, Mr. Monk and himself would be visiting the office of one Dr. Kakkukk Ora, an expert on all things historical, and all things to do with cuckoos and clocks.

Dr. Kakkukk Ora's office was in a fine limestone building, on the campus of the University of San Francisco. His office was neat and business like, decorated with heavy wooden furniture. Leastways, it would have been business like if he did not have at least twenty of those infernal cuckoo clocks cuckooing away. It was nine o'clock when we met him, and the din was something unimaginable.

Dr. Kakkukk Ora was an old man, with thick glasses, and spoke with a thick Magyar accent.

"Velcome," said he, graciously. "I hear you wish to consult me upon a murder. Such a thing has never happened in all my years as a professor of history! And, certainly not in pertaining to my study in the history and art of the cuckoo clock! But I will be all to glad to help you solve this most terrible crime!"

He shook our hands warmly, to Stottlemeyer's annoyance, he was particularly attentive to myself (by virtue of my association with Holmes) and Monk. Although quite bald, I suspected a twinkle in his eye when he extended greetings to the fair Sharona.

One the preliminary greetings had elapsed, and Monk had wiped his hand clean - to the puzzlement of the elderly gentleman - Disher informed him of the particulars of the horrible scene we had witnessed the day before.

"Thank you, professor," said the captain, eyeing the twenty cuckoo clocks suspiciously.

"Professor Kakkukk Ora," said Mr. Monk, "What can you tell us about this cuckoo clock?"

He showed the good doctor the photographs we had collected the day before.

"Ah," said the professor. "What a clock, such a clock I have never seen before," he said. "Very strange - I wish you could show it to me in my person."

"Unfortunately, it was stolen," said I, "By those most atrocious murderers.

The professor removed an jeweler's glass from his desk - and peered at the photograph.

"This cuckoo clock was of American or English manufacture," said he. "Judging by the style of the building, I should guess under 120 years old."

"Why American?" said I.

Monk answered that question. "Usually German and Swiss clocks resemble a wood, or a cottage."

"Exactly," said the professor. "Here you have a millionaire waving his hat at the top of a hotel."

"Much like the hotel we're staying at," I said, showing Dr. Kakkukk Ora one of my picture postcards.

Monk turned his head. He paused.

"_ADRIAN_," said Sharona, excitedly. "You've solved the case?"

Monk nodded. "We have no time to lose."

Astonished, all of us (except the good doctor, who continued to peer through his lens) followed Monk out of the room.


	6. The Hotel Anglais

CHAPTER 5 - HOTEL _ANGLAIS_

"You know who the murderer is?" asked Stottlemeyer, as we squeezed into his black Dodge Charger.

"The murderers are," corrected Monk, as he sat in the front seat. "No I don't, but I'm 90% sure where we can find them. "We can't get into this car - there's only five seat belts."

"Just enough for everyone," said Stottlemeyer, turning the key into the ignition.

"I say," I protested. "I'm quite squashed."

The seat, though roomy, was altogether uncomfortable when squeezed between Sharona and Disher - with Disher chewing on a foul smelling hotdog. My protests were ignored; Stottlemeyer sped off notwithstanding.

Imagine my surprise when we arrived at the _Hotel Anglais_.

"The murderers are in here," said Monk, "I'm 90-95% sure."

The handsome lobby was quite deserted this time of day. I was sure Mary had gone to some child friendly event with the Hillsworth twins

We went to the front desk, where Stottlemeyer told the clerk he wished to see the manager.

The manager, Mr. Tweeds, a portly man with handlebar mustache, had greeted me on our initial arrival. He was quite surprised to see me in the company of a Sharona, Monk, and two of San Francisco's finest.

"Have you seen a strange couple in here lately?" asked Monk.

"Well, yes . . ." said Mr. Tweeds. A very tall man in rough clothes came in with a short woman wearing a expensive fur stole.

"That's them," said Monk. "They're on the 13th floor by now."

"There is no 13th floor," said I. "This is a twelve story hotel."

"Yeah, 12," said Disher. "Who'd have a 13th floor? It's unlucky?"

"Who'd have an odd number of floors?" Monk observed. "But this hotel was built by an eccentric."

"He's right," said Mr. Tweeds. "But its been closed off since the Great Depression. The hotel, facing financial troubles, demolished its East Wing and closed off the top floor. I can take there - I have the key."

Mr. Tweeds led us to the bank of modern lifts - took us through a small door to a service area of the hotel. Doors in the dimly lit corridor led to mechanical rooms, kitchens, laundry, and the former telephone exchange. There, off to the side, were the hotel's original bank of three lifts - now used only by the service personnel.

Mr. Tweeds turned the key opening the door. We went in, Sharona pulling the somewhat reluctant Monk in the confines of the rickety machine. When the doors had closed, and the machine started reluctantly to the number 13; and Monk had finally dropped his argument in favor of using the stairs.

"Now Monk," said Stottlemeyer, grimacing as he looked at the ascending numbers on the dial above the door. "Do you mind telling us what this is all about?"

Everything seemed to fade to monochrome as Monk summarized the case.

"At the turn of the century, an eccentric Englishman named Sir Humphrey Houghtly moved to California, citing the more favorable climate"

"Indeed," said I. "I seem to recall the name."

"Yeah," said Disher. "He has a lot of money, and did a lot of weird things. He built this hotel, didn't he?"

"Yes," said Monk. "And sometime later he went completely insane."

"Cry me a river," said Sharona, cruelly. "What's the point?"

"Sir Houghtly didn't trust banks, and much of estimated fortune vanished when he died in 1913. His will was memorable in that he left his son. . . ."

"Everything he could find," interrupted Disher, "but to remember that procrastination was the thief of time."

"Dickens," said I. "David Copperfied."

"How'd you know that?" asked Sharona.

"I saw it on _Weird Old Rich People_," explained Disher - while I, somewhat superfluously, explained my familiarity with Dickens' works.

"The thief of time reference was to the clock," said Monk. "They had to get the clock?

"Why they did have to kill Mr. Addison?" asked Sharona.

"He wouldn't sell them the clock," Monk explained. "They didn't know what the exactly the clue was until much later."

"So . . ." said Stottlemeyer, chewing on another in his endless line of toothpicks; "That clock is a clue to old Houghtly's lost fortune? So what does it have to do with the hotel?"

"It's patterned after the hotel," Monk explained.

He was right! No wonder we were sure we had seen the clock before?

"So what about the cuckoo's?" asked Sharona, as the elevator finally stopped.

"Decorative," said Monk.

"The man in pinstripes?" I asked.

"Represents Houghtly himself," said Monk. "He shows us where the treasure is."


	7. Penthouse Treasure

CHAPTER 6 - PENTHOUSE TREASURE

The doors finally opened on the dimly lit hallway. Dull color once again flooded the lift.

Mr. Monk groaned.

We were greeted by the sight of a corridor decorated in the handsome style of years gone by - tarnished by burned out bulbs, cobwebs in the chandeliers, mold on the wall and rugs, and, dust, dust, everywhere.

"We rarely come up here," Mr. Tweeds explained.

"This is a health hazard," said Monk, looking at an overflowing bucket catching clouded water from a leaky pipe.

"Adrian," said Sharona sternly, "We're here to catch a murderer, not to conduct a public health inspection."

It was clear where the fugitives had gone - two pairs of footsteps had come up the stairs and walked down the hall - breaking the lock on every door in their path - to the anger of Monk and the curiosity of Mr. Tweed.

They had broken open the door to the right of us, Room 1313.

"Double unlucky," Disher observed.

The door was now shut. Disher and Stottlemeyer approached the sides of it. They motioned us to stand far down the hall.

"SFPD," said Disher, "Identify yourselves."

There was a short pause, a shrill voice and a low toned mumble. Disher was about to open the door, when a series of bullets tore through the moldy wood, and ricocheted through the door at the other side of the corridor. No sooner had we hit the floor to avoid the spray of bullets, some screams was heard on the floor below ("Dear me," said Mr. Tweeds, "I will have to give a refund to the guests on the floor below"), a large man in coarse clothes shoved through - with an aged burlap bag and sinister sidearm in his grasp. He continued to shoot - but Stottlemeyer was a dead shot - and the man fell dead - leaving a growing stain on the already decayed carpet.

The detectives cautiously went in the dark room, to see what they could find.

Sharona and I examined body; confirming that he was, in fact, deceased. A young fellow, with torn jacket and denim pants, he had the look of person destined to use his fists rather than his brains.

We recovered our nerve, and followed Stottlemeyer in to a slight, fashionably dressed young woman, sitting on an derelict armchair, crying.

"Is he . . . ."

"Yes," said I.

The woman put her face in her hands and sobbed.

The object d'art, the massive cuckoo clock, was ungainly thrown upon the bed. The back had been broken open at some point. Monk turned it around. "The door at the top of the clock represents the closet," said Monk. "They needn't have stolen it or looked inside."

He made his way to the closet door.

"It's shallower than all the other closets," he said, showing us where the criminals had pulled back a board with a crowbar.

Disher, Stottlemeyer, and myself, pulled back more of the board - revealing more canvas bags - each filled with gold coins.

"Amazing deduction, Mr. Monk" said I. "A feat worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself."

"_ADRIAN_," yelled Sharona. Mr. Monk was out in the hall. He had recovered an ancient hoover, and was busy vacuuming the rug.


	8. England Again

CHAPTER 7 - LONDON AGAIN

"It was only after further investigation the Captain discovered the young lady was Sir Houghtly's great - granddaughter," said I.

"Interesting," said Holmes. "That you should stumble upon the same case in San Francisco, that I been consulted upon here in London."

I had been some days, and was relating my Californian adventures to Holmes. He had made known the fact he had heard of the strange case of the cuckoo clock, but this contention he had been engaged on the case was absurd.

"Why . . ." I started.

"Not at all," said Holmes, using his deductive reasoning to answer my thoughts rather than words. "The pinstriped gentleman you passed on your rather blusterous exit some weeks ago with Sir Edgar Houghtly - the young lady's brother. He had decided to consult me on his lost treasure; the family legend always having interested him. Recovering it would, and did, double the Houghtly's worth."

"What of the clock?"

"Why, the fools had sold it along with much of the elder Houghtly's strange collection. Evidently, I deduced the specific mention of time; as well as old account of the items sold after Houghtly's death, to indicate the cuckoo clock was key to finding the treasure."

"How did his sister hear of it" I asked.

"Likely he told her," said Holmes. "She has resided in America for a good number of years. He regularly sent her a allowance, for her personal living costs, and expected she would act as his agent until he found time to make the trip himself.

"Then why did his own sister seek to steal the treasure?" I asked.

"She had foolishly fallen in love with that gangster - who of course - was the main culprit of the fair," said Holmes, smoking his pipe. "Her late father wrote her out of his will, and she had no right to the treasure - or anything, except that which her brother chose to give her."

"A miserable business all round," I said.

"Yes," said Holmes. " The Addisons ruined, and Mrs. Addison only compensated for her loss by Dr. Kakkukk Ora purchase of that accursed clock."

"The price he paid was more than generous," I informed Holmes. "At least that monstrosity is owned by someone who actually appreciates it.

"Better the thing had been destroyed" he said, in a philosophical mood. "Whatever its aesthetics, that clock was the solution to a century old game of hide and seek dreamed up by a madman. Like most ideas conceived in insanity and delusion, it only left wretchedness and ruin in its wake."

THE END


End file.
